Page 66 of Captive Ruin

Has that monster killed a man, and if he has, is it on me?

I didn’t want him dead, I wanted him gone. Yet, if he is… Lucy is free. I’m free. The world is a fractionally better place.

The more I think about it, the less bothered I am. Is that wrong?

Apparently not, because I’m hungry. I stop at a grocery store and get enough for dinner tonight, along with a bottle of wine. There’s so much to do tomorrow that I can’t afford to drink all of it, but I sure as hell need a glass. Or two.

Reaching my apartment door, I juggle the bag in one arm, fishing out my keys with the other. It’s a graceful dance, one I’m used to. Door open with foot. Bag pressed to the wall. Light switch flicked. Door closed.

“Good evening. How was your day?”

I spin in shock, the bag falling, paper tearing, contents spilling out. Van Wyk is sitting on the couch, in what was the fucking dark, inside my apartment despite the high-end premium locks I chose at a three-hundred-dollar same-day weekend installation charge.

He stands up. “Don’t worry, I’ll get that. My fault for surprising you.”

I can only look on, gaping, as he walks toward me. Black slacks, black long-sleeved shirt that hugs his toned frame. Moving like the panther he is.

Adrenaline kicks in and I step to the dresser, pulling open the drawer, grabbing my gun. Van Wyk doesn’t seem bothered when I point it at him in the double-handed grip Lucy taught me. He simply bends, picking up the torn bag with most of the contents, then collecting the rest.

“Salmon, mushrooms, pasta… the wine is fine. Shaken, but not stirred.” He quirks an eyebrow at me. “I’ll cook this. Give me half an hour. Why don’t you take a bath?”

I jab the gun forward. “Get out, goddammit. Get out of my apartment, or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you.”

“Were you thinking of baking the salmon or flaking it into a sauce?” He walks back into my kitchen, completely ignoring me.

“Last chance, Van Wyk. I mean it.”

“Call me Lukas,” he says, unpacking the contents onto the counter. “Ah, there’s cream. A sauce, then?”

I take a pace forward, flicking off the safety. The click is loud; he can’t have missed it. “It’s perfectly legal to shoot you as an intruder in my house.”

“With a gun you don’t have a license for?”

How could he possibly know that?

“I don’t think that’s what the authorities would focus on,” I grind out. “Do you want a bullet in the fucking leg?”

He makes a half turn, looking back at me. At me, not the gun, like the weapon I’m pointing at him has no effect whatsoever. “You’ve had a long day. Go and run a bath. I’ll let you know when it’s ready. Shall I bring you a glass of wine?”

“I’m not taking a goddamn bath.” I blink, shaking my head. Why am I even entertaining a conversation with him? “Count of three. One.”

“You can take a bath, or I can cuff you to the taps and wash you myself.”

“Two,” I say through clenched teeth.

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you’d prefer?”

“Three.” I brace myself, aim carefully, then pull the trigger.

The click is a hell of a lot louder than the safety was, but there’s no gunshot. Of course, the chamber is empty. Lucy’s best-practice. I’m half in relief, half in disappointment. I don’t want to shoot anyone, even him, but I worked myself up to it, and now there’s nothing.

“Amelia,” Van Wyk says, the tone carrying warning. “Don’t try my patience.”

Fuck this guy.

I aim again, readying myself, and shoot him in the leg.

Except I don’t. The weapon clicks again. And again, when I pull the trigger for a third time.